


Pictures in the Smoke

by bettervillains



Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: 1960s, F/F, I neither confirm nor deny a nipple piercing, heaps of paint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-08-11 04:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7877224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettervillains/pseuds/bettervillains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In early 1960's Manhattan, an instructor, her old friend, and a student discover that art offers a freedom the world cannot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Portrait of the Artist

**Author's Note:**

> "Oh, lock the portal as you go,  
> And see its bolts be double. . . .  
> Come back in half an hour or so,  
> And I will be in trouble."  
>   
> — from _Portrait of the Artist_ , Dorothy Parker 
> 
> ###### 

The apartment was a small one. Studio, bachelor, loft — all places where the bed is the center of one large room. The hearth. The heart. 

Quite frankly, the woman liked them that way. No confusion. No unnecessary ideas. No shoes left under the coffee table. No coffee table to leave anything under. 

"Come back to bed."

She'd woken the girl. She hadn't meant to. But then, things happen. Her fingers trailed over the hem of the blanket...

"I can't," she replied, reaching out onto the floor for her dress. "I have a class." 

The girl paused. "It's Saturday." 

_Was it really?_

"It's okay," she continued, but there was an edge of disappointment all too evident in her voice to be mistaken for the fatigue of mid-morning. "I don't mind. If it's done, if you're done here just... just say it." 

The woman turned, leaned down to kiss the girl. She shied away, slightly, before reaching up and tugging the woman down by the hair, pulling her into an embrace, into her neck. 

"You woke me up," she murmured, and the woman sighed. "I didn't even know I was sleeping." 

"It was my pleasure." 

"I know," and there again was that quirky grin, that smug expression she'd worn far before the woman had taken her hand, kissed her knuckles, stroked her wrist...

The girl turned her head and kissed her. Boldly. Fiercely. Then, softly, it died away, the last wisp of something, drifting... 

The woman sat up, cleared her throat. 

"I have to go." 

"I know," said the girl again before tossing her hair, a wave of reddened wheat in the gentle breeze of early morning. "Lock the door behind you." 

The streets below were littered with similar characters, those leaving their lovers at dawn, or else returning to them from beds they should never have entered. 

She lit a cigarette, waiting for a taxi, huffed a thundercloud of smoke as she, at last, waved one down — 

"Abby?" 

She turned. It was a woman, approaching her from a nearby storefront, gloves covering a tangle of slender fingers, knitting and releasing themselves, as if nervous —

"Abby Gerhard, it is you." 

She smiled, polite, delicate. This had happened before. She had learned to be delicate.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't recall..."

"No, of course, why would you — I'm sure I wouldn't remember me either. It was so long ago, we were little more than children, really..."

Abby blinked. The woman was tall, trim, all golden hair and fair skin poured into a pair of black trousers and a white blouse, starched stiff and almost luminescent in the dawn...

But it was her eyes, and the cut of her jaw, and the curve of her lips, a face from long ago, which demanded to be remembered...

"Ah," Abby mused, smiling, "Carolyn Ross." 

They stopped on their way into the city and had coffee. Carolyn Ross was now Carol Aird, she explained — she removed her gloves mid-way through a halved grapefruit, and the ring was indeed beautiful — and it didn't take long for Abby to realize she was bored out of her mind. 

She had never really worked, that much Abby remembered. She could see the mansion at the end of the street as clearly as if they were sitting in front of it, the cobblestone walk and the manicured hedges. The Gerhards, well off enough to be respectable, were practically peasants by comparison. While Abby had set her mind on a great college for the purpose of some great line of work, the Ross women had never needed to, and as an Aird, that tradition continued. 

"I was always fond of you, and the other girls, and the Waycliffe boys, do you remember? But all moved on, went away, and I grew up. And then, Harge..."

Her voice trailed off.

"So you've stopped painting." 

"You remember my painting?"

Carol looked delighted. It warmed some sentiment in Abby, clung to the pit of her stomach...

"Of course. You were very talented."

Carol leaned in, almost coy, as if a child telling a secret. Abby, as if pulled in by some inexplicable gravity, leaned in also. 

"I still am," her voice was soft, triumphant. "When I do, it still feels wonderful." 

After a moment's pause, Abby reached forward and touched her hand, fingers tracing over her knuckles. 

"You should come to the studio, sometime."

"What studio?"

"Where I teach. At the Morgan." 

Carol's hand threaded into Abby's. 

"Oh, I'd be thrilled. Is that where you're going now?"

"I can. Don't you have business in town?"

She watched as Carol grappled with the question. 

"True, but only the tedious kind. I had much rather go with you and see your studio. Is it far?"

Abby shook her head. "Twenty minutes by car, if we get lucky and the roads are clear."

Carol smiled. "Well. That's that."

Abby raised her hand for the waitress, and called for the check.

The studio was on the top floor of the building, sequestered in a distant corner. Save for some staff making ready for the coming week, the building was empty. 

Carol spent several long minutes admiring Abby's works. Abby spent the time admiring the small of her back, the curve of her shoulders, the wisps of hair curling into the back of her neck...

She was still staring when Carol turned, suddenly. 

"Beautiful," Carol murmured, smiling. 

Abby nodded. "Yes." _Yes, you are._ "Would you like to try something?"

Carol's eyes lit up. Abby fetched her a clean canvas, palette, brushes, and a smock. She wondered if Carol noticed her knuckles brushing against her spine as she tied it for her. 

"Sit," said Carol, patting a neighboring stool. 

"Pardon?"

"I need a model."

"Oh, I don't —"

"Come, now, Abby!" Carol laughed, "You can keep your clothes on, I promise."

Abby mounted the stool, brow furrowed. 

"They taught anatomy, in my lessons," Carol continued, "One cannot paint the world without the form that rules it." 

"I wouldn't say _rules_..."

But her shoulders released their tension, the longer she sat, all the same — something in the stroke of the brush, the sound of bristles, something in that coarse beauty had always relaxed her. 

"I sometimes think we are little more than instinct, feral things wrapped in compliments and pretty skin and wool."

"Wolves in sheep's clothing," Carol mused. 

"Quite." 

"Are you a wolf, then, Abby?"

Abby looked up. Tourmaline and opal blended in the woman's eyes, and she gazed into them, as if she didn't quite care to find her way back again.

"We all are, is my point."

"Even me?" 

Abby nodded, eyes drifting shut. "Even you." 

The sound of bristles on canvas slowed, then died away entirely. Abby opened her eyes, and her entire field of vision was Carol, the scent of her perfume in her nose, the stroke of her fingertips on her cheek. 

"I was always fond of you," she murmured. "Dear, sweet Abby."

It took a long, aching moment to find her voice. 

"I'm not so sweet," she replied, "Not anymore."

It was a warning — _I've left a dozen beds this month, I'll leave yours, too_ — but Carol, to her surprise, only smiled. 

"All the better."

The kiss was a hungry thing, as if breathing, as if feeding. Abby threaded her fingers in her hair, desperate to maintain control — but Carol had been raised with the mind of a queen, and would not be so easily toppled. It was almost frightening, the skill and ardor with which she took command, Abby's jaw and neck in a loose grip, long fingers pressed just enough —

And then, nearly as soon as it had begun, it was over. They parted, and Abby felt as if a part of herself was pulled away on Carol's lips. 

She thought that might be the end of it. For some, that's all the want there was... but Carol's eyes were dark, unsatisfied. 

_Hungry._

"Not here," Abby murmured. "Somewhere proper."

"Oh, hang it all. I'm through with proper."

"Maybe you are," said Abby, firmly. "But that doesn't mean I am." 

The woman blinked. Her fingers stroked over Abby's wrist. 

"Of course," she murmured, lifting it to her lips. Abby shivered when her teeth grazed her pulse, felt it stagger. "Let's go, then." 

The loft was large enough for one, perhaps two, if neatly fitted. The bed was big enough even for three. 

Abby sat at the end of it, unlacing her boots, kicking off one and then the other. When she looked up, Carol was unbuttoning her shirt, pulling it down and off her long arms. 

She drew in a breath, as if drowning. _God,_ the woman was beautiful. Pale and tall and exquisite — the two halves of her heart warred, whether she would rather paint her, now, or —

She felt fingers tipping her chin up to meet Carol's eyes, and then her lips. 

It would be hours before she thought of painting again.


	2. Faute de Mieux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Travel, trouble, music, art,  
> A kiss, a frock, a rhyme—  
> I never said they feed my heart,  
> But still they pass my time.”  
>   
> — _Faute de Mieux_ , Dorothy Parker 
> 
> ###### 

The morning dawned warm and clear, a slick sheen of humidity holding fast to the skin of the young photographer who had risen, earlier than the sun itself, to capture its rising. She had slept in shorts and an old shirt, daubed with paint and ripped in places, snuck up to the roof in an old pair of boat shoes, and with the last glimmers of starlight fading, found her final photograph — there, in the winking of the sun from beyond the horizon, as the earth tilted it into view. 

It was breathtaking. She watched for a long time, until the sun was warming her scarcely opened eyes, drawing a husky yawn from her lungs. At last, the shower beckoned, and she made her way back down to her apartment. When she emerged, teeth brushed and a flannel robe wrapped loosely around her lithe frame, her eyes fell on the camera again. 

She smiled. Therese Belivet had been waiting for this moment since the day she’d first picked up a camera. She held it now, running her fingers over the dials and the lens cover before setting it gingerly in her bag.

Below, a car horn honked insistently. She sighed, dressing quickly in slacks and a button-down shirt, stuffing the rest of her belongings away. As she lifted her valise and her shoulder bag, and crossed the threshold into the hallway, she lingered for a moment. It would be someone else’s, at least for the next few months. Whether the city proper would accept her as one of her number, only time could tell… 

She locked the apartment behind her, and headed downstairs.

Outside, Mrs. Simco was scolding her son, matting his hair down into something more presentable as he argued that it was “a coupla hours in the car”, and no one was going to see him anyway.

“And you promise you’ll call?”

The woman was on the verge of tears. Her son, tall and broad and leaning on his car, rolled his eyes.

“Richie!”

“Ma, of course I’ll call.”

She turned to face Therese. 

“You’ll remind him, won’t you?”

Therese looked up from the curb, shoulders tight. The woman’s eyes were startlingly fierce, resolved.

“Of course.”

“Good,” the woman said with a smile, wrapping her arms around Therese. She dropped her bags, hugged her back, spindly arms awkward in their embrace. “Have fun, study hard… and Therese?”

The woman pulled back, met her eyes, and lowered her voice so her son couldn’t hear.

“Don’t get into any trouble.”

Therese, at a loss for words, only nodded. Mrs. Simco held her gaze in a tight scrutiny, all the way to the car. 

When they were at last on the road, Richard exhaled a sigh of relief.

“God, I thought she’d never shut up.”

“That’s your mother, _Richie_ ,” Therese said, smiling as he jabbed her in the arm. “Besides, you were crying the other night about how much you’ll miss her —“

“I was drunk. You know that.”

Silence stifled the air in the car, thinking back to the bar, to Therese’s apartment… Richard cleared his throat.

“Reminds me. I never did apologize.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, though.”

Therese bit her cheek. “I just don’t want that from you.”

“I know. I get it.”

Therese glanced over at him. A subtle blush of embarrassment was blooming in his cheeks. 

“We can still —” he faltered, cleared his throat again. “Still be friends though, right?”

“Of course,” Therese said, smiling, “Who else will I know in the big bad city?”

She made her hands like wolf paws, nails cutting through the air like claws as she mussed his hair, and soon he was laughing again, and the music was soft and full, and the lights ahead of them bright, and Therese laid her head back on the headrest, gazed out the window, her eyes drifting shut — 

“And so this girl,” Richard would say later, “Who bragged for days about having enough conversation to talk a tortoise out of its shell, fell asleep three seconds into the ride, and I was driving in silence all the way to Manhattan.”

“You had your music!” Therese spluttered, as the boys at the bar burst into laughter. They had settled into their apartments that afternoon, set up by the institute. The local riffraff of the school, Richard’s childhood friend and his brother, had come out to greet them when they’d rested enough. Therese hadn’t needed much rest at all. 

“Two hours!” Richard roared, his friends slapping his back, beer sloshing from their bottles, “Two hours with a dicey radio —“

“Alright, alright,” Therese conceded, “I’ll get this round, huh?”

The brother followed her up to the bar, as she held up four fingers to the bartender.

“So, you’ll be at the Morgan?”

Therese nodded, sipping at the wine the bartender handed her.

“Been there?”

“Did a few classes when I was hunting around for a passion or two. Photography, right?”

She nodded. He glanced around the bar, leaned in. 

“I got a tip for ya,” he lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial, “Avoid Professor Gerhard. Like the plague, stay away.”

“She tough?”

“Like a leather belt. Jackals are gentle by comparison.”

Therese smiled. “Thanks.”

It was a piece of advice that she otherwise might not have remembered, drowned as it was in the haze of smoke and booze and a damned good evening, unwritten as it was before she collapsed into bed, safe and sound and at last blessedly alone in the loft that would be hers for the summer. But something about the way he’d said it gnawed at her, that exhortation to avoid the woman, almost as if she couldn’t handle it…

“I’m tough, too,” she murmured, tipsy sweet nothings to the ceiling, “I’m tougher than I look.”

No one replied. _Perfect_ , she thought, just before she fell into a muddled sleep.

And when the day came for class selections, she put Professor A. Gerhard’s LIFE DRAWING at the top of her list.


	3. Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My land is bare of chattering folk;  
> The clouds are low along the ridges,  
> And sweet's the air with curly smoke  
> From all my burning bridges."  
>   
> — _Sanctuary_ , Dorothy Parker 
> 
> ###### 

Abby dealt with the first Monday morning of the summer session the same way she did with the proper academic year — reaching for the cigarette case on her nightstand, lighting one, and watching the cloud of smoke she exhaled drift lazily towards the ceiling.

She was mid-way through a second sigh when the sound of a key in the lock of her front door sent her scrambling to sit up, pulling a blanket around her bare chest —

The door creaked open, as the last person Abby wanted to see at that moment swept into the apartment, as always, as if she owned the place. 

“Carol,” she sighed. _Shit_. “I thought we were meeting at the —“

Carol waved her hand, removing her hat. The hem of the crimson dress that hugged her hips swayed as she crossed the threshold. 

“It’s the first day of classes and you were late, so I thought I’d check, make sure you’re not under the weather…” Carol’s voice trailed off, eyes glinting with delight as she examined the scene. “And who is that, under there?”

Abby glanced at the heap of sheets and freckle dusted skin next to her.

“Local.”

“Ah,” Carol mused, smiling, smug, “Local artist, hm?”

Abby narrowed her eyes.

“I’m going to take back that key if you’re not careful.”

“Careful?” Carol laughed, a tinkling carefree sound that drifted across the room, almost visible, almost blending with the smoke exhaled from Abby’s nostrils.

Abby felt a flush rise in her chest — it was enough to remind her of the countless nights they’d spent together, tangled in that very bed, now and again with paint, and charcoal, and canvas, and wine, and the cool breezes of spring blending into the slick sweat of early summer...

But they hadn’t been countless at all. Even a full moon wanes, eventually. It might have been painful, if Carol’s wanderlust hadn’t been equally matched by Abby’s wandering eye.

It took her a moment to realize Carol was still speaking.

“— with all the subtlety of a horse-thief, and _you’re_ telling me about careful?”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Abby replied as she ground out her cigarette into an ashtray on the nightstand, “And you know it.”

“So I’m wrong, and you haven’t just had a wildly inappropriate _romp_ ,” Carol tossed her hair at the word, running her fingers along a framed painting on the wall over Abby’s desk. “With one more student before summer session? That’s a relief.”

Abby opened her mouth to reply, just as the toilet flushed behind the bathroom door a few feet away from Carol’s piercing eyes. 

Carol crossed her arms, an expression somewhere between amusement and disbelief blooming across her delicate features, as the door to the bathroom opened, and a girl wearing only Abby’s painting smock emerged.

“Professor, you’re almost out of —“

The girl blinked, leaned shyly against the doorframe.

“Toothpaste. Hello.”

“Hello,” said Carol, with a wave, scarcely more than a ripple of her knuckles. Her eyes said it all — _not just one, then…_

The girl crossed one ankle behind the other.

“I didn’t know there was… anyone else here.”

“I see,” Carol replied, smug, glancing over at the now yawning girl curling into Abby’s side. “Well, Abby, I’m deeply apologetic, having imposed on you so early in the morning. I’ll see you at the Morgan?”

Abby nodded, as the girl dozed off again, sighing into her shoulder. Carol smirked.

“Unless you think you need the rest.”

“I’ll be there,” said Abby, firmly, and Carol laughed again as the door shut behind her. 

The girl in the smock cleared her throat.

“So…”

Abby looked up, as the girl bit her lip. 

“Think she’d mind if we wake her up?”

By the time Abby made it to the Morgan, she’d had to explain not once, but twice how complicated it was for her to form any kind of extensive attachments. Whether or not it ended well (these had, thank Christ), it was an exhausting discussion to have, particularly when it served as a follow-up to a morning of… prone calisthenics.

Abby shouldered the door of the studio open with a bang, smirking inwardly as the student body jumped in their seats.

_Well, mostly prone…_

“This is Life Drawing, a foundation course for everything this institute has to offer. My name is Abigail Gerhart. You will address me as Professor, Professor Gerhart, or, if you’re feeling extra intimidated, ‘sir’.” 

She scanned the room. A handful of well sculpted, pretentious young men, a smattering of bright eyed young women… Abby was sick of them all already, and would have given a king’s ransom to be back in bed.

“In front of you, you’ll find a drawing pad, several sticks of charcoal, and a knife. Sharpen with care. I will not be responsible for severed fingers again.”

She ignored the whispers of “again?” which haunted her approach of the pedestal in the center of the circle of chairs.

“In a few moments I will be bringing in a volunteer model. It will be a she, and she will be naked. You will have thirty minutes to draw. As this summer session continues, that time will decrease.”

Abby focused her glare on each of the students in turn — twelve, she realized, suppressing a chuckle — did that make her Jesus? She briefly, at that, considered a gentler approach, and quickly dismissed the idea. 

“Unprofessional treatment of the model will not be tolerated. If intolerable treatment needs to be explained to you, you do not belong in this room. Understood?”

Silence. She cleared her throat.

“ _Understood?_ ”

A chorus of terrified assent rang out, even including a timid “yes, sir” from one corner of the room. Abby allowed a hint of a smile to tug at the corner of her lips, before heading out into the hallway.

There, the model was waiting, and she wasn’t alone. Carol, hat perched delicately on her perfectly coifed hair yet again, smiled at Abby’s approach.

“Professor,” said Carol with a nod, “I was just speaking with Miss… what did you say your name was?”

“Belladonna.”

“Miss Belladonna here has had quite a fascinating life,” drawled Carol, in a tone that vaguely resembled a lion before a feast.

Abby clicked her tongue. It wasn’t a misnomer — the girl practically radiated murder, hair falling in a sharply angled bob, one leather-bound leg propped back against the wall, eyeliner winged halfway to heaven, neckline of her blouse plunging halfway to hell. 

“And, more recently," Carol continued, "What sounds like a harrowing adventure in automobile theft?”

“Adventures,” the girl clarified, “Plural.” 

Carol’s eyebrow darted upwards. Abby cleared her throat.

“As fun as that sounds, I have several harebrained artists in there who need a wake up call. There’s a room where you can change —“

“No need,” replied the girl, who had already begun to strip. The two women watched as she sauntered into the room, wearing nothing but her boots. 

For a long moment, they stood there, silent. 

“Was her…” Abby bit her cheek.

“I believe so.”

“Wasn’t sure they did that. On people.”

“As opposed to?”

“I don’t know. Belts?”

Carol lit a cigarette, exhaled a deep breath. 

“Don’t suppose you’d let me observe.”

Abby smacked her arm. A wan grin spread across Carol’s lips, and Abby rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Mrs. Aird?”

It was an offhanded comment, and Abby regretted it instantly as Carol’s face fell. 

“No, I do, actually. Harge is back in a week, and I… haven’t readied the house, picked up the suits, there’s…” the fingers holding the cigarette trembled, words floating on a distant breath, exhaled through a tight jaw, “Just so much to do.”

“Sure,” Abby murmured, touching her wrist. “Next time? We meet again, day after tomorrow.”

“And Friday.”

“And Friday,” said Abby, glancing at the door. “I should —“

“But of course. The harebrained won’t supervise themselves.”

Abby nodded. “Next time.”

Carol leaned in close, brushed a kiss along one cheek and then the other. Abby squeezed her hand.

“Call if you need anything.”

Carol scoffed, sauntered down the hallway, flicking her cigarette out an open window. Abby watched her go, shaking her head. 

_Good lord, the woman could walk._

The studio, to her surprise, was silent upon her return. Belladonna was standing on the pedestal, one arm hanging loosely by her side, the other propped confidently on her hip. Her clothes laid strewn around her feet like the draping on some sacred altar.

Abby took up a stance near the back of the room, glancing around at her students. A few had a hungry look in their eye — for art, perhaps, if not the lithe form so confidently posed before them. One young woman even appeared to be sweating from her front row seat, sat directly in front of the model, clad in plaid and holding her charcoal in trembling fingers, eyes wide enough to soak in every detail. 

Abby smiled. As much as she complained about it, fresh meat was almost always good for a memorable story. 

“Thirty minutes,” announced the professor, “Begin.”


	4. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time I created an elaborate set-up and threw my AU just far enough into the '60s for it to be vaguely plausible just to remind everyone that, yes, Rooney Mara had/has a nipple pierced and, yes, if you look closely you can see the indentations in _Carol_ (2015) dir. Todd Haynes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No moonbeam cuts the air; a sapphire light  
> Rolls lazily, and slips again to rest.  
> There is no edgèd thing in all this night,  
> Save in my breast."  
>   
> — from _Midnight_ , Dorothy Parker 
> 
> ###### 

“You can’t be serious!”

Therese crossed her arms, glancing out the window. It had been simple enough to ask Richard for a drive around town after dinner, but now…

“If you’re going to act like a child, don’t come.”

“I’m not acting like a child,” Richard huffed, childishly, with a childlike scowl. Therese rolled her eyes, reaching for the door handle as the car pulled to a stop.

“Terry,” he insisted, and when she ignored him, stepping out of the car, he groaned, “Therese, c’mon! It’s almost midnight —“

“It’s 1962, Richard. I don’t have a curfew and I don’t need a babysitter.”

He parked the car under a flickering lamppost, glancing around the grimy street. A few bars seemed busy, but otherwise the street was quiet, dark, and altogether unsettling. 

“I just… don’t understand.”

They stood before the storefront, before Therese tightened her shoulders.

“You don’t have to understand.”

A bell over the door tinkled as they stepped inside, a sound drowned out by the hum of needles, abject whistling, and a crackly radio pumping out blues music in the corner. A man in a white t-shirt stood behind the counter, smoking a cigarette as he flipped through a magazine.

“Appointment?” 

He didn’t look up. Therese cleared her throat.

“No.”

“We do some walk-ins, subject to the artist’s discretion,” the man drawled in a thick Brooklyn brogue. At last, he looked up, scrutinized them both. “Lemme guess — drafted? Curtis does the best anchor this side of the Hudson.”

Richard blinked, waved his hand in abject rejection. “Uh, no. It’s… her, actually.”

The man focused his gaze on Therese, and she met his eyes.

“Piercing,” she clarified, “I was told to ask for a Mr. Carlyle?” 

The man shrugged, looking over his shoulder for —

“Thatch! Got another of them beatniks looking to be a pincushion!”

A tall, brazen gentleman sporting a crimson collared sweater shirt made his way over. The thin line of a mustache above his lip quirked as he examined Therese.

“Thatcher Carlyle. If you’d follow me?”

Richard opted to wait by the door — the shop was small enough that he could make his way to her side quickly should he need him, but he had no interest in following her into the room. Therese couldn’t fault him for that.

She scooted up into the raised chair, smoothed her skirt. 

“So,” Thatch began, rolling up his sleeves. “What brings you here?”

“I’d like a piercing.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He smiled, a jovial thing that seemed like a sliver of the moon had given the man its seal of approval. It put her at ease.

“I saw it, recently, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. On this woman in — well, I’m an artist, you see, photographer, and I’m in this class —“

Thatch waved his hand. “You don’t need to explain anything to me. It’s not my place to understand. I just hold the clamps and do the deed.”

Therese nodded, took a deep breath, and gestured. His eyes followed, to her right breast —

“Ah. That’ll hurt, you know.”

“I know.”

“More than the ears,” he nodded to the holes in her lobes, “And they can be a bitch to keep clean, if you’ll my pardon my language.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“It’s twenty-five dollars altogether, with the cost of the stud,” he must have noticed her wince, nodding sympathetically, “But no one else will give you a free follow-up, I guarantee, or help if it gets infected.”

“I have the money.”

She listened as he explained the healing and cleaning process, heart thudding, thinking back to the model the day before, to her trembling fingers as she desperately tried to sketch, to how her eyes kept drifting to those delicate rings so sensually suspended from her breasts… 

Of course, Therese had seen statues in museums, paintings in galleries, girls at bathing parties, all bare, but there was something so unabashedly _naked_ about the model, a smirk that played upon her lips that dared anyone to believe her to be vulnerable… 

It drove a corkscrew straight through Therese’s stomach, leaving a warmth in its wake that she couldn’t quite account for. 

She had lain awake that night, almost all night, and awoken Tuesday morning with her resolution firm. 

“Sound good to you?”

Therese nodded, and signed the paper he offered her.

“I’ll get the needle ready —“

“You do it with a needle?”

She said it in such a deadpan manner that Thatch froze, and would have missed the joke had she not smiled a moment later. He barked a laugh, and she relaxed. He turned his back, readying the instruments, and she, for the first time in the presence of another, bared her breast.

It felt strange, for a stranger — almost clinical, as if she were in the hospital, and he was about to carve open her chest, or take a sample of her blood. Thinking of it that way made it easier, somehow — he was performing a service, nothing more, and in that manner he conducted himself so efficiently she was shocked when he was already murmuring, “Ready?”

She nodded. He pressed the needle through, and she drew in a hiss through her teeth, sparks and alarms flickering behind her eyes — and then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

When Therese returned to Richard, he had a funny expression on his features. 

“You’re trying not to look.”

“Well… yeah.”

“You can look.”

He dropped his eyes, squinted —

“Can’t see anything. You didn’t chicken out, right?”

She pushed his shoulder into the door frame as they exited the shop.

They met the group at the bar in time for the last few rounds of drinks. Phil’s jaw dropped when Therese leaned in, a coy smile on her lips.

“You really did it?”

“Uhuh.”

“Where?”

“Some girl gave me a name.”

“Who —” Curiosity brimmed like liquid light, pooling in his eyes, and he snapped his fingers. “Wait — that bartender at the Overlook?”

Therese nodded, leaning back in her seat.

“Stings like the dickens, though.”

“I bet.” He whistled, low. “Tell ya, I don’t know what comes over you artists. You complain nothing’s quiet enough, but when things are goin’ smoothly you… well, poke holes in ‘em.”

Therese stifled a laugh. “And writers don’t do the same?”

He shrugged. “Why bother? I got half a dozen characters I can put through the paces. No need to get myself involved.”

Therese took a deep sip from her second glass of wine. It wouldn’t be her last of the evening, but in that moment she felt content, settled — something in her had been sated, for the time being, a flare of desire for adventure that had crept up so quietly it had felt too sudden to be safe.

But that was that. She had taken care of the urge, fed it like a thirsty plant, and she felt safe, now. Phil, perhaps, would understand, if she took the time to explain it to him… but he was ordering up another beer, and asking the bartender to turn up the radio to catch the last lines of some song by some crooner or another. 

Therese watched him dance across the bar to his brother and to Richard, who was lighting a girl’s cigarette. They exhaled wisps of smoke that drifted up to join the fog above the heads of the patrons.

Therese lifted her wine to her lips, drained the glass, and paid her tab. No one noticed her leave, nor watched as she hailed a cab. She breathed out in relief only when the driver had pulled away from the bar and into the sleepy streets, too silent in the too early morning to be considered anything other than night.

Phil was right, at least for that moment — some quiet was all she wanted.


	5. The Last Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "New love, new love, where are you to lead me?  
>  _All along a narrow way that marks a crooked line._  
>  How are you to slake me, and how are you to feed me?  
>  _With bitter yellow berries, and a sharp new wine.”_
> 
> — from _The Last Question_ , Dorothy Parker 
> 
> ###### 

Therese Belivet had never been more thankful for the build of her body as she was at that moment, dashing towards the elevator at the end of the hall with all the speed her legs could manage. 

How she'd overslept, she couldn't say — it might've had something to do with the port she'd gotten into once she'd arrived home for the night. She winced, the initial hangover somewhat soothed — it had been a gift from Richard's brothers at her birthday, the smooth, scarlet liquid that had danced along her tongue as she danced around her bedroom, and now...

She skidded through the closing elevator door, the edge clipping her chest as she hit the back wall with her shoulder. Panting, she sent up a bouquet of blessings to whatever god had given her an empty —

"Are you quite all right?”

She froze. The voice, silk and velvet and heaven and heat, threaded through her ribs like the stems of some elegant flower, or the vines of some relentless ivy, thorns gripping, almost painful, in her chest. 

"Oh, dear..."

She turned. The woman, a tall blonde in an elegant summer dress and cream colored shoes, was staring at her chest. Therese looked down, and cried out. 

She was bleeding through the pale green of her shirt, a smatter of yule in the sweltering summer. Staring, face aghast, paralyzed with shock, she couldn't have noticed the chime of the elevator arriving had it hollered her name instead. 

"Come, let's have a look, I'm sure it's nothing," and then the woman was taking her arm, leading her to a restroom between the elevator and her classroom, patting her wrist until they were sequestered in the tiled room —

Therese quickly lifted her shirt over her head, focused more on the mirror than anything else — there was a darker stain in her brassiere, she noticed, heart sinking at the thought of shelling out more money to replace it — the woman was dampening paper towels, rifling through her purse...

It was then that Therese remembered the piercing. She snuck a look — she seemed to have only jostled it, shocked the tender area into bleeding, but she couldn't really know without a better look. The thought of this woman, seeing, judging — it filled her with a sudden flare of anxiety, struck against the heel of her shoe and smoking up into her lungs as she tried to draw a deep breath —

"I'm —" she swallowed, timid voice fighting awkward breath, "I'm sure it's fine. Just a scratch." 

"Hm?" The woman turned, brow creased, "I have a band-aid, best put that on, just in case." 

Therese took it from her. They stood, for a moment or two, in total silence. If the woman was at all unsettled by the sight of her, a stranger half-undressed, she didn't show it.

"And you should clean it," said the woman with a nod to the damp towel.

Therese glanced down at the bandaid and smiled. It was covered in flowers, white primroses and a kaleidoscope of tulips — 

"I have a daughter, she's stubborn about her cuts, too. I tell her the flowers help them heal faster." The woman smiled, warmly, kindly, and something curled in the pit of Therese's stomach, "For once, I hope I'm right." 

Therese nodded, murmured a quiet, "Thank you," before the woman turned and slipped through the door. 

When she turned to examine herself in the mirror, she saw the blush that had spread down her jaws to her neck. She shook her head, consoling herself with the unlikelihood that they would ever meet again, and reached back to unhook her band —

When she arrived to class a few minutes later, Professor Gerhard was already speaking. She gave her a cold look, then noticed the spot of blood on her shirt before Therese could open her mouth to explain. The professor softened, if only slightly, and handed Therese a smock before gesturing to her seat. 

The model had already arrived, stripped down to a slip and her cream colored shoes. Therese started at that, horror blooming in her stomach, eyes widening and flicking up — 

It was her. The woman's eyes were on the professor, listening intently. She hadn't noticed yet, Therese thought, hoped, prayed she wouldn't see her staring, breath a mess of recalcitrant lungs and resistant heartbeat. 

"You will have twenty-five minutes," announced Gerhart, "Begin." 

Therese reached for her charcoal, exhaled a deep breath, and looked up at the model again, resolving to be entirely professional. Her heart stopped entirely, then picked up in double time, as three details caught her notice: 

The woman had shed her shoes and slip. She was looking directly at Therese — and she was smiling.

◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ 

Abby lit a cigarette as the last of her students cleared the room — she didn’t smoke in her classroom all that often, but after seeing what she’d seen…

Her eyes flicked over to Carol, who stood over one easel in particular. She’d put her slip on again at the end of the session, and was fingering the hem ever so delicately as she studied the pad. 

“This one did fairly well,” she mused, “Spent a lot of time on my hips… sound familiar?”

She looked up at Abby, smiling that muted, wan smile that seemed to encourage a filling in with the imagination, or else an offering by the recipient of something that might make it broaden. 

Abby drew in a breath, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and only hummed in reply. Carol tilted her head, made her way over to where she leant against her desk. Before Abby could blink, she’d taken the cigarette from her fingers and abandoned it to an ashtray.

“Or do I need to remind you?”

Her breath was warm against her neck, and Abby tilted her chin up, back, for a moment or two let her graze her lips along the incline of her jaw.

“Carol,” she murmured, and the woman pulled back, a lazy smile twirling the corner of her mouth, and then leaned in, this time for her lips. Abby indulged herself for the space of one long kiss, for the distance of a graze from her thigh to her hip, for one last surrender to rapture in the scent of Carol’s perfume — and then she pushed her, gently but firmly, away.

Carol’s eyes, dark and stormy, pierced through her chest. When she met Abby’s eyes again, the professor had collected herself, and stared right back.

“We aren’t…” she let the sentiment linger, then concluded, “Anymore.” 

Carol shrugged. “I know. So?”

“I saw you looking at her.”

Carol stiffened.

“Oh, and I can’t look?”

“I saw how you were looking.” _Dark. Unsatisfied. Hungry._ “I know what you want. And it isn’t me.”

Carol leaned back, arms crossed over her chest. She was trembling, ever so slightly.

“She’s…” Carol began, and Abby waited, but either she could not conjure up a word strong enough to describe her, or such a word had not yet been written. 

“She’s young,” Abby finished for her. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Carol smiled, and there was that languor, that deep grating sadness that came with every mention of Harge’s name… now come expressly from just the hint of his existence. Carol reached for her dress, pulled it over her head, and turned her back for Abby to zip it for her. 

Over the sound of steel teeth knitting themselves together, Abby almost didn’t hear her murmur, “I never did.”


	6. Rainy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter poured out of my fingertips of its own volition. 
> 
> I like writing these two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;  
> I am frail, be you forgiving.  
> See you not that I have need  
> To be living with the living?"
> 
> — from _Rainy Night_ , Dorothy Parker 
> 
> ###### 

The dawn of far too early on a Friday peered through the gauzy curtains as Therese woke, sweating, from another dream of the nameless woman. 

It was the second night this week she'd succumbed to the harebrained entrapment of her subconscious, and with the weekend fast approaching it showed no signs of stopping. She swallowed hard, held fast to her sternum, where her heart thrummed erratically beneath the surface —

She remembered every curve, every line of that elegant body, every stitch of ivory teeth set smugly in her lazy smile, hand propped on her hip, now and again tossing back the sheaves of golden hair cascading down along her graven jaws — 

Therese laid her head back on the pillow, swallowing against another panted breath. 

She'd have given anything to have heard her name — _Helen_ , perhaps, or even _Aphrodite_ , come now to pose for her, to be captured in the art of another solitary mortal. 

She glanced around the room. There, on scraps of paper taped to the walls, she'd assembled the woman, carved her out of lead and ink and cigarette smoke and her own trembling fingers, and the derelict failings of her memory — 

It felt good to be inspired again, but even artists need their sleep. She yawned, pulled the covers up over her, and closed her eyes again. 

When she woke, again, at a more conceivable hour, she rose, glancing out the window as she stretched — the sky had turned a murky blue-grey, the unmistakable color of a slowly brewing storm. She lumbered towards the bathroom, started the shower, and breathed in deeply as steam filled the air. She stripped, slowly, carefully — but the shirt she'd slept in bore no trace of blood (thank heavens), and for a long moment she stared at her bare torso in the mirror, examining the barbell thrust through her breast. 

It made her bold, in some way she couldn't explain, gave her a confidence rooted at the base of her throat, as if to breathe fire. She reached up, and gently touched it — the wound was healing, still, but though it stung there was a flare of heat in her stomach at the sight, the feel, the weight of it —

She straightened her back, and stepped into the shower. 

The elevator to the classroom was full of memories, a veritable tripwire of a threshold that sent Therese back in time, to the smell of the woman's perfume, the concern in her eyes, the feel of her fingers on her skin — had they touched, even, at any point in the restroom, or had that only been the dream? 

Therese shook her head, as if to banish the last mists of whatever her mind thought best to shroud the woman in, but it was no use. She steadied herself with a breath as deep as she could manage, and headed for the classroom. 

Art helped. There was no human model, this week, only a shaggy sheepdog who wagged and made adorable half barking sounds, nuzzling into the professor's hand (the dog was hers, evidently, and it brought a smile to her face the students could scarcely believe). Therese focused on the animal, on the facets of it which could never be human — ears, snout, tail, its powerful haunches, the tufts of its fur...

So absorbed was she in tracing the lines of its jaw that she didn't notice the shadow over her shoulder until it blocked her light. 

"Excuse me, you're —" she began, but her voice fell away entirely as she looked up. 

"Mrs. Aird," called the professor, crossing the room to greet her with a lukewarm handshake. "What a surprise."

They spoke on, but Therese couldn't hear it — _Aird_ , god, wasn't it gorgeous, like something built for flight, aired, borne of the heavens, a delicate crane or a trumpeting swan... she focused her eyes on her pad, on the dog now dozing on the pedestal, but her ears were ready, waiting, listening, hoping for more —

It never came. The woman smiled and murmured in dulcet tones that she swore she wouldn't be any trouble, that she'd sit and be quiet. The professor shrugged, gestured for her to sit where she liked, and Therese's stomach twisted when she noticed the woman pulling a stool over to sit beside her. 

"You have quite a hand," said Mrs. Aird, "And a refined eye."

"I wouldn't say that," Therese replied. Her fingers trembled, and she cursed silently at a wayward line. 

"There's no need to be modest. It's hardly a compliment, in a room like this," the woman reached for a cigarette case in her coat, then put it away again when the professor coughed in her direction. "More of a statement of fact. Without it, I daresay you'd have come all this way from..." 

She paused, and Therese finished for her. "Ohio." 

"Ohio," the woman echoed, smiling. "And you've been drawing long?" 

"Oh, not long at all. Photography's where my heart is." 

"I see." The woman smiled, leaning forward, as if she had a secret to tell. "And we must go where our heart is, mustn't we?"

Therese hardly knew how to answer. She nodded, dumbly, instead. The woman leaned back again, and it took every fiber of Therese's being to go back to sketching canine jaws instead of Mrs. Aird — it made her chest tighten and release just to think of it. 

When class concluded, the students stood by their pads until the professor came over to release them. Therese stood quickly, hoping she'd be released quickly enough to catch up with Mrs. Aird, share a few more moments of her company, but the professor seemed to avoid Therese until the last possible moment. She took her time, too, scolding many, even praising a few, until one by one the room emptied.

"Focus," was all she said, when she'd arrived at last at Therese's easel, then added after a moment's thought, "Your lines are good. When you concentrate, you're steady." 

Therese nodded, thanked her, but the professor waved her away with a quiet, "Dismissed." 

Therese turned for the door, pad under her arm, and her heart stuttered in her chest as she realized the woman was waiting in the hall. She headed outside, pulling on her jacket —

"I don't suppose you'd like to have lunch with me," said Mrs. Aird, "Would you?"

Therese smiled, a thin, timid thing. 

"Yes," she replied, "Yes, I would." 

They headed for the elevator, waited quietly until the chime announced its arrival. 

Mrs. Aird stepped inside, and as Therese followed the woman murmured, "Mind the door." 

They looked at each other, and dissolved into a fit of laughter that lasted all the way to the institute's lobby. 

Lunch took place in a small restaurant on the ground floor of a nearby hotel. They walked, Therese always half a step behind the taller woman, admiring the curve of her ear, the strong stroke of her neck. Mrs. Aird held the door for her, despite the young bellhop who jumped at the chance, and Therese smiled, stepping inside the ornate lobby. 

Mrs. Aird’s name attracted immediate attention, flawless service and a stiff efficiency that left Therese questioning her occupation, or —

“My husband,” Mrs. Aird explained, “Has some friends in this area.”

Therese nodded. He, too, must be glorious — she imagined some ancient Greek general from some distant myth, returning home in a cuirass with all the spoils of war, to Mrs. Aird seated on a marble throne —

“Miss?” the waiter repeated, and Therese looked up, a faint blush of embarrassment on her cheeks.

“I’ll have whatever Mrs. Aird is having,” she replied, raising her voice enough to be heard over the clatter of silverware at the surrounding tables. “Thank you.”

The waiter nodded, and if he was bewildered he made a smart move of not showing it. Mrs. Aird lit a cigarette, offered Therese one, who took it, held it out for Mrs. Aird to light.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” Mrs. Aird began, “After our encounter in the elevator. Never seen a person wounded in such a way.”

“I’m fine. It was only a scratch.”

“I see,” said the woman, exhaling a short puff of smoke, “And then, of course, I saw your work… you’re really quite talented. Made me look quite... well, more refined, I think.”

Therese blushed — she had seen, then, her sketch of her, in charcoal and smudges. Not nearly as refined as the original, no, but it was a high compliment, and she took it in greedily, a swallow of water in a desert — 

“I’m better with a camera,” Therese replied, and in her voice she was surprised to find the boldness of a confident promise.

The woman held her gaze as the waiter brought their food, poured their wine — a quiet “bon appétit” was murmured, then —

“Do you have it with you?”

Therese looked up from her meal, a plate of fish on some indeterminate starch, and shook her head.

“I never leave home without it, but today... it's meant to rain. I didn't feel comfortable. ”

“I see,” the woman drawled, “That’s very wise. And what does T.B. stand for?”

She’d signed the corner of her works that way, almost out of habit.

“Therese. Belivet, it’s Czech —” 

“Not Theresa?”

“No.”

The woman lifted her glass to take a sip —

“I don’t —” Therese began, too loudly. She checked her enthusiasm, settled back in her seat. “I only heard your name through Professor Gerhart —”

The woman laughed, loudly, at that. “And I never introduced myself! Will wonders never cease — it’s Carol. Carol Aird.”

What Carol said next, Therese didn’t hear, so lost was she in the tinsel sweet spun sound of _Carol_ , heavenly choirs joining in harmonic chorus to sing it softly in her ears, _Carol, Carol, Carol…_

“I should like to photograph you, sometime, Mrs. Aird,” Therese murmured, and only later would she realize that the strange expression Carol wore at that moment was due to her never having been interrupted before. “For my portfolio, I’m meant to… that is, we ought to be taking portraits and I —”

But Mrs. Aird waved the rest of the sentence off, smiling as she set her glass down. 

“I would be honored, I’m sure, and no doubt delighted, on one condition,” she replied, then leaned forward and took Therese’s hand, squeezing it briefly as she continued, “You must call me Carol.”

Therese nodded, heart pounding in her chest. “Carol.”

By the time they'd finished lunch, the grey clouds that had haunted the early morning had begun to weep over the city, a thunderstorm brewing that sent the rain down to earth in thick curtains, drops splattering loudly on umbrellas and awnings. Therese shielded her eyes, looked out into the storm, then turned up the collar of her jacket, as if to shield —

“Oh, no, none of that!” Carol exclaimed, “No, you must take a cab.”

“It’s only a few blocks, I had better walk —” 

“Nonsense,” said Carol firmly, before turning to the bellhop, “Find this young woman a cab, would you?”

He nodded eagerly, and scampered out into the rain. Therese bit her cheek, as Carol reached for her purse, withdrawing her wallet.

“I could never forgive myself if you caught a cold all from joining some lonely old lady for lunch.”

“That’s —” Therese began, but the sparkle in Carol’s eyes was that of a diamond: bright and brilliant, and capable of cutting glass. There would be no use in arguing, so she only smiled, and murmured a quiet, “Thank you.”

The bellhop returned, soaked, with an umbrella and a quick nod. Carol followed her out into the rain, hand on the small of her back to help her into the cab, shoulders drawn in close under the umbrella as she leaned down to press the money into her hand.

“If you have nothing to do,” said Carol, and though her words were casual, there was a slight tremor to them that Therese would parse ad infinitum when home in bed again, “You could come by tomorrow, with your camera, and we could… if you like.”

“I’d like that very much, yes,” said Therese, and Carol smiled, murmured a faint, “Until tomorrow, Therese Belivet,” then straightened up again, and shut the door. 

The apartment seemed empty, now, bare, save for the wall that bore Carol’s figure in lead and ink. Therese shed her jacket, found another few spare scraps of paper, sat on the floor before it, and began, yet again, to draw.

With every flick of her eyes towards those graven jaws, she remembered. With every memory, she had only two thoughts, a tug of war across her consciousness as her fingers traced and trailed along the wrinkled page —

It felt good to be inspired again — tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.


	7. Prophetic Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait — was under the weather, then had a busy week. Thanks for your patience!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ”Because your eyes are slant and slow,  
> Because your hair is sweet to touch,  
> My heart is high again; but oh,  
> I doubt if this will get me much.“
> 
> — _Prophetic Soul_ , Dorothy Parker 
> 
> ###### 

Somewhere in the vast labyrinth of Manhattan streets, two women scarcely slept a wink all night. 

When the younger did, she dreamt of paint flecked across pale skin. For the elder, she dreamt the paint stayed in its container, keeping the skin all for herself, for her curious fingertips, her wandering lips...

Therese woke late, almost noon. She groaned — it seemed, now, like the day before had only been a part of that vivid, oversaturated dream... She rubbed her eyes, glancing over at the figure of Carol plastered on her wall. 

No, lunch and the rain and the cab had all been true, and somewhere in the city Carol was pencilling her into her datebook... the thought gave her chills that she tried to quell with a shiver and a shake of her head. 

It led to an entire other array of questions. They hadn't set a time. When was she meant to call, arrange their meeting? Any excitement that had bloomed the night before dissolved into a nervous nausea, a crackling static in her chest just short of pleasant. 

When she glanced at the sketch of Carol again, her stomach settled.

She reached over, lifted the phone on the nightstand, and dialed for the operator. 

“The Orion Hotel, please, in Manhattan." 

Her heart thundered as she waited, and when the management she asked to be connected to Mrs. Carol Aird's room, and waited, again, breathless —

"Hello?" 

The sound was gruff, grating — a man, and an exasperated one at that. 

Therese's fingers almost dropped the phone entirely — but she got a grip, swallowed, mustered her voice —

"I'm c-call — calling for Mrs. Aird, please." 

A rustle of fabric, muffled voices — the phone clacked and clattered —

This time, the greeting was distinctly Carol's. Therese bit her lip, heart warming at the sound. 

"I... Did you..." she cursed her voice for sounding so small, “It’s Therese. Belivet. Did you still want those pictures?"

“Five o’clock,” the woman replied, shortly. 

Therese scarcely managed the breathy, ”Oh,” that followed, but Mrs. Aird spoke on, over her, as if she didn’t hear — as if she couldn’t. 

“Room 319,” she continued, sharply, as if scolding a child, “Goodbye." 

The line went dead with a subtle click. Therese pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it. 

Something inside her chest slowly began to mince itself. It felt too childish to cry, and yet... she dried one cheek with the palm of her hand, drew in a deep breath — 

_Message received._

The shower was waiting and she loped towards the bathroom. Her camera winked up at her, almost mockingly, as she passed by. 

She had only just finished dressing, toweling her hair dry, when the telephone screeched suddenly. Her hand darted over, leaning across the bed —

“Hello?”

“Terry!” It was Richard. Her heart sank. “Terry, Phil got the job at the Times, we’re all going out to celebrate.”

She glanced down at her watch. “It’s only one o’clock!”

“Only sobriety has a curfew,” Richard intoned dramatically, and someone near him crowed. Richard laughed, loudly. “What’s that? Yeah, I’ll tell her — Phil says you’d better come or he’ll bawl his eyes out.”

In the background, Therese heard Phil shouting that _no,_ he hadn’t said that, and he’d slug Richard for saying so. It tugged a smile to her lips, and she sighed.

“Where are we going?”

“The Overlook, at Century and Fifteenth. Two-ish — we’ll see you there.”

Another round of laughter rippled through the phone, and then Therese hung up the phone, slumping back into her pillows.

She would be merry, yes, pretend for Phil’s sake — one of a few friends she had in the world, and how could she deny a group who wanted her company so earnestly? Carol, at any rate, seemed to consider her just another child. 

She frowned, and pulled herself to her feet. But she wasn’t a child anymore, no, she was an artist — young, perhaps, but worth anyone’s time.

She shook her head, pulled on her jacket. If Mrs. Aird couldn’t see that, to hell with her.

The party at the Overlook was already in full swing by the time Therese arrived — Phil and Richard and a teeming mass of youths in various states of undress had taken over the bar, and a trio of bartenders was working in tandem to keep their glasses full. 

Therese drifted her way through the crowd, looking for a friendly face — and, at long last, she found one.

“Whiskey sour,” she called to the bartender nearest her, and the woman looked up, grinning broadly. 

“Belivet,” she laughed, “‘Bout damn time. We’re drowning in men, here, driving me crazy.”

She rolled her eyes for effect, the studs climbing up her earlobe glinting in the dim overhead light. Therese laughed, despite herself, mood already lifting. 

“And she smiles!” called a voice behind her. 

Therese turned, shook Phil’s hand. “Congratulations.”

“It’s a job,” he said with a smile, “And who’s this?”

Therese nodded towards the bartender. “Genevieve Cantrell, Phil McElroy.”

“Enchanted,” he said, offering his hand with a smile. 

“Sure,” Genevieve replied, coolly, “Whiskey sour, Therese?”

Therese nodded. “I want to talk to you, later, when you get a minute.”

Genevieve smiled, shaking the drink into life and sliding it across the bar to Therese. Before Phil could offer another point of conversation, Genevieve had turned back to the row of gleaming bottles behind the bar. Therese sipped at her drink, and Phil shrugged, turning to make his way back over to Richard and the gang. Therese followed. 

It would be hours before the party slowed enough for Genevieve to slip away, joining Therese in the cramped bathroom at the end of the bar.

“Thatch said you went to see him.”

"I did." 

“And?”

Therese paused, bit her lip, and tugged her shirt more flush against her chest. The slight jutting through her breast was unmistakable. 

Genevieve whistled.

“I can’t believe you did that. Did it hurt?”

“Not as much as I thought it would. Now it doesn’t even hurt at all.”

“Not even when you touch it?”

Therese blinked.

“I don’t… touch it all that much, to be honest.”

Genevieve laughed, stubbing out her cigarette on the sink. 

“Then what’s the point!”

Therese shrugged, leaning back against the counter. 

“I don’t know. I saw it on this model and… well, I just thought it looked… keen.”

“Keen,” Genevieve mused, “The woman or the piercing?”

A slight flush rose in Therese’s cheeks. Her jaw tightened —

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“No?” If Genevieve had anything else to say on the subject she abandoned it, flicking the butt of her cigarette across the room. “How’s class otherwise?”

Therese’s eyes found her feet.

“Belivet?”

Before Therese could even consider stopping herself, the story of Carol Aird came spilling out of her lips — their brief meeting in the elevator before the modeling, the modeling itself and the sketches she’d done of her, her reappearance and their lunch together — 

Genevieve tsked, quietly.

“She seems to have taken quite an interest in you.”

“And here I thought so, but then… when I called today, she…”

Genevieve waited, patient. Therese bit her lip.

“Some man answered. Her husband, maybe. And she had little to say to me.”

“I see. And that upset you?”

Therese could only nod in reply. 

After a long moment, Genevieve asked her something else, but Therese was miles away, remembering the feel of Carol’s hand on hers, insisting she call her Carol… then hearing the edge in her voice when she picked up, the gruff tone of the man there with her…

“Belivet,” Genevieve murmured. 

Therese’s eyes widened as she looked up. When exactly Genevieve had stepped closer she couldn't say — Therese breathed in deep, the smell of fresh mint and rye and some lingering perfume clouding the air around them, as Genevieve turned the lock on the bathroom door with a subtle click. 

"I asked you why." 

"Why?" Therese's voice was hoarse, almost inaudible, but Genevieve only smiled. 

"I think I know." 

She saw it coming — there was no denying the movement, a motion she'd seen in films, on street corners, lingering in the corners of hungry, untamed dreams — but still she thought it might only be her imagination until Genevieve pressed her lips to hers, fingertips grazing her cheek. 

A chill shot up her spine, coiling in her stomach — sensational, like fireworks, like wildfire, crackling and searing and moving her lips for her, feeling the sigh and press of the bartender against her — and in Therese there was an instinct, a dull roar that growled in her throat to reach for her, to draw her closer —

Therese drew away, quickly, fingertips finding the edge of the sink in a white knuckled grip. 

"Wrong," she murmured, and again, shaking her head. "It's wrong —" 

Genevieve backed away, cheeks flushed, a cool expression painted on her features. 

"Wrong because I'm a woman," she asked, lighting another cigarette, "Or because I'm the wrong woman?" 

She exhaled a cloud of smoke. Therese had fled the bathroom before the cloud could even begin to dissolve. 

She wove through the bar, bumping into tipsy patrons, nudging her way past Phil —

"Where ya going?" 

Therese glanced at her watch — quarter to five. She'd never make it... unless —

She grabbed Phil by the arm and pulled him along with her. 

"I need five dollars. Right now." 

He was stunned, to the point of a spluttered, "What?"

"Right now!"

He dug for his wallet, pulled out a handful of cash. 

"Thanks," Therese panted, running for the door. 

The cab took her to her apartment, the driver even agreeing to "step on it" for a few extra bucks. She darted upstairs, found her camera and her spare film, and ran back down — the cab, which had promised to wait for her, had gone, and there was no one else in sight —

She ran, then, cursing her beat up shoes with every step, ran the six blocks to the hotel, dashing through traffic as necessary, bumping past a businessman in a long coat —

"I'm sorry," she called over her shoulder, and if she heard his gruff reply it didn't register, so focused was she at last on the bellhop waiting to open the door, on the lights of the lobby —

When at last she stood before room 319, it was 5:05. She lifted her hand to the door, and after a moment to steel herself, knocked.


	8. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awful rude of me to leave a cliffhanger that long — sometimes the moment demands taking one's time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always I knew it would come like this  
> (Pattern rain, and the grasses springing),  
> Sweeter to you is a new love’s kiss  
> (Flickering sunshine, and young birds singing).  
> Gone are the raptures that once we knew,  
> Now you are finding a new joy greater—  
> Well, I’ll be doing the same thing, too,  
> Sooner or later.
> 
> — from _Nocturne_ , Dorothy Parker 
> 
> ###### 

On the doorstep of Carol Aird's hotel room, Therese learned a very important lesson, one she would carry with her for the rest of her life:

Time can be stretched almost infinitely when any deep yearning is involved. 

It seemed like years had passed (though in all probability it was only the space of a few breaths) by the time the woman finally answered the door, pulling it open slowly...

She said nothing. Therese had lost all sense of language, lips parted — she hoped, against all the odds that had stricken her silent, that whatever expression crossed her features in that moment would be enough.

The woman simply stepped back, opened the door wider. Therese stepped inside. 

"I didn't think you'd come.” Her voice was gravelly, grave, as she shut the door.

Therese shook her head. "I almost didn't. You were horrible over the —"

She blinked. The woman was trembling, a freshly lit cigarette swaying in her fingertips like a reed on a riverbank. _Afraid?_ No, her eyes were red, ashen, as if from crying.

"Harge," she murmured, "Returned from Spain..."

She exhaled a short wisp of smoke. 

"...with another woman." 

Therese's heart stopped. Did she care, then, who her husband slept with?

She could think of nothing to say, but a quiet, "Oh." 

"He'll take the house, the car…” she waved those trivial material matters away, fingers tangling in the thin smoke, “But my daughter... I'll never see her again." 

The woman's lip quivered as she stubbed out the cigarette, a tear tracing a lighting bolt down her cheek. 

Therese dropped her bag (and damn its contents), crossed to her immediately, and wrapped her arms around her. It was all instinctual, a feeling too fervent to fight. Therese's fingers found the back of her hair, tugging her close against her shoulder, holding her steady. Upright. Strong.

When the woman lifted her head again, Therese thumbed a fresh tear away. 

"I'm sorry," Therese murmured, "I wish I could — anything, do anything." 

"There's nothing to be done,” she shook her head, blonde curls delicately bidding farewell, “It was only a matter of time before... and it's done, now. Over." 

Therese reached up, stroked her cheek. One of Carol's delicate brows delicately raised. Therese bit her lip, then leaned up on her toes and kissed her. 

It was different than a muddled exchange in a bar bathroom, different than a cocky youth with nothing to lose. It may have been Mrs. Aird, betrayed and half broken, who had answered the door, but it was Carol, statuesque and sensational, who kissed her in return. 

Therese herself was anything but statuesque, anything but still, her young fingers climbing up her skin like tongues of flame, into her hair, pulling her closer, deeper —

Carol pulled away, if only to breathe, and not all that far. She leaned back, almost reclined on the arm of the nearby couch. 

"Well," she murmured, amused, her blue eyes searching, a crook of her red lips almost beckoning for another kiss. Something almost entirely internal groaned at Therese to oblige them. 

“B-bad?" Therese asked, voice quivering. She swallowed, willing her voice to still. "Wrong?"

"No, darling," and then those long fingers were settled on her hip, and in her hair, tracing over the back of her neck, pulling her flush against Carol, _god,_ the endless refuge of Carol, the silk of her dress, the smell of her perfume. "Unexpected."

Carol leaned in, and Therese met her, firmly, desperately. If kisses were water, Therese could have drowned, and willingly. 

She was very nearly in her lap by the time Carol pulled back again, legs tangled between Carol's thighs. 

"More," Therese murmured. 

It was involuntary, as unavoidable as breathing. Whatever reservations she'd held had long been abandoned in the expanse of Carol's fair skin, in the delight in her eyes when she pulled a moan from Therese's lips, in the wisps of her hair tangled between Therese's fingers. 

Carol tilted her head, ever so slightly. 

"You're sure?"

Therese nodded, swallowing, eyes fluttering. 

"Take me to bed," she insisted, "Please." 

There would be no further pleading — not until they got under the covers, at least, but Therese could not know that then, as Carol took her by the arm, led her gently back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. 

Therese sat on the edge of the bed, and held steady, if only for a moment, soaking in the sight of Carol as she unbuttoned her dress, fingers deftly working the clasps until the garment pooled around her ankles. Therese's eyes widened. 

A delicate tangle of bronze lace crept over her chest and hips, somehow almost as sensual as seeing the woman bare. Therese licked her lips, mouth suddenly dry, and swallowed. 

Carol stood still as a statue for a long moment. Therese realized with an abject horror that she was giving her a chance to change her mind. 

"No, no," she managed, heart pounding, reaching out with trembling hands, "I want you. I have since I saw you, since..."

A crooked smile played across Carol's lips as she tossed her hair. 

"Clothed," Carol asked, eyebrow raised. "Or otherwise?"

Therese felt the flush rise in her cheeks, and looked away. A firm grip took hold of her chin as Carol stepped closer, turning her gaze to meet. The perfume off the woman's wrist drifted through Therese's body like some specter, one that would never rest, until, shivering, she —

"There is no shame, here," she murmured, "No reason to be frightened. Are you?"

"No," said Therese, boldly, then considered, and added, quietly, "Not of you." 

"Then what?"

Therese bit her lip. "You'll laugh." 

"Oh, I sincerely doubt that." 

She closed her eyes, and shivered at the feeling of Carol's lips on her neck. The woman had knelt, chin pressed against her shoulder, stomach pressed against her knees. Therese swallowed. 

"I have friends. Who complain that… that their boys are no good."

"In bed?"

Therese nodded. Carol kissed the tip of her nose, and Therese scrunched it, a small smile tugging instinctively at her lips as her eyes opened. 

Carol beheld her with an absolute tenderness, an entirety of certainty that took her breath away. 

"I promise you," and there was a husky smoke in her voice that made Therese shiver, a stoked flame as dark as it was brilliant, "There will be no complaints." 

Her hands smoothed up the back of Therese's legs, under the skirt of her dress, and she kissed her again, a dizzying thing that flung any fear into some distant corner of the room. A soft sigh tumbled from her lips, and Carol smiled against them, pulling back to unlace her shoes. 

Carol undressed her slowly, piece by stubborn piece, until only her underthings remained. Therese's heart raced, stomach tight, a delightfully torturous ache built between her thighs. If she had felt anything like it before, she'd dismissed it, but now she couldn't resist the urge to reach down between them as Carol laid her back on the bed. 

She was surprised when Carol stopped her. The woman took hold of her hands, threading her fingers as she kissed each knuckle, pressing them gently above her head. 

"We should take our time," Carol murmured. "Trust me."

Therese held her breath, nodding and wrapping her fingers around two slats in the headboard as Carol dipped her head, lips trailing down her neck, closer to the black cotton pulled taut across her chest — 

"What's this?" Carol murmured. "Why, _Therese_ —"

Therese glanced down. Taut, indeed, with her nipples pressing against the fabric, clear as day, and the bells of her piercing pressed along with them. 

When they'd first met, she'd never thought she'd see the woman lose composure. Carol's teeth sunk into her lip, swallowing against a groan as she reached under her, fingers shaking, unwrapping her, delicate, like a gift —

The metal winked in the dim bedroom light. Carol, fingers noticeably trembling, cast the garment aside, careless, and kissed her.

_Hard._

The tone had changed, a shift in a symphony, a volta in a sonnet — Therese's legs tangled into Carol's, arms obediently raised, grip tightening with a gasp as Carol's head dipped, kissing along her breast —

When Carol's tongue flicked against the piercing, she moaned so earnestly that Carol abandoned all hopes of moderation. She sucked, lightly, fingers circling the other, rolling and pressing supple flesh, feeling every rumbled groan in Therese's chest before it escaped the barrier of her lips, parting, hips rolling, aching, desperate —

"Oh, please, Carol," a breathy beg against the thin sheen of sweat already clinging to her forehead, the perfumed sweet scent of her hair, “ _Please_ —"

Her head was spinning, releasing the headboard and wrapping her arms around Carol as the woman pulled at her rolling body, arm slipping under, holding her close as her other hand skated down over her stomach, over her thigh — Therese's nose found the pulse point on the woman's neck and she brushed her lips, teeth, tongue, delighted when Carol moaned softly into her ear, fingers tracing circles —

They dipped, suddenly, seeking soft lips, slick heat, fingertips scarcely making contact — Therese bit her lip, a husky murmur — "Don't tease," — released it with a gasp as Carol obliged, fingers delving, devolving into shallow strokes, a pleased rumble against Therese's ear —

"You _have_ been wanting, haven't you?"

Therese whimpered, felt the sharp breath it drew from Carol's throat, her fingers wasting no more time in gathering wetness, trailing up as if to —

Her hips lifted off the bed entirely when Carol, almost casually, circled her clit. 

Carol turned her head to kiss her, gently, pressing her down into the bed again, grounding. Therese was distantly aware of her nails digging into Carol's back, almost wondered if she was hurting her — but then Carol's fingers circled again, and she was lost in the sensation, fingers tightening, a torrent of heady sounds pouring from her lips — 

Carol dipped her head to flick her tongue over the piercing again, metal warmed by the heat and pressure of tangled bodies, and Therese seized her hair with one desperate hand, tugging her up to kiss, fingers holding on to Carol's neck, throat, hips rolling, aching, against her hand —

When Carol slowly slipped a finger inside, she moaned, loudly enough for a blush to bloom in her cheeks. The thoughts of being overheard, of complaints, of a mid-evening visit from a hotel manager flooded her mind, and either it read on her face or else her body tightened, stiffened with a tension too severe to be pleasant —

Carol's hand withdrew from the small of her back, reaching up instead to stroke her jaw, lift her chin — their eyes met, a warmth radiating from the woman. 

"Let go," she murmured, "Let go, we're alone." 

Therese shuddered as Carol pressed her thumb, fingers thrusting gently, expertly, and she held that gaze until her eyes could stay open no longer, teeth sunk into her lip until the pleasure was too great to not indulge in the sound and the fury, fingertips grazing down Carol's back as she found herself begging, scraping, _yes, more, please —_

Just as Carol's fingers curled she kissed her, swallowing the moaned outcry that erupted from her lips, holding her tightly as her body shook, desperate, against fingers and lips and _Carol_ , perfect sensational Carol...

Carol didn't pull away from her until her heart had slowed, her breath evening out into some semblance of steadiness, eyes opening again. A soft grunt as those long fingers, shining in the dim light, left her sated, but empty —

Therese curled into her chest, feeling the gentle thrum of Carol's heartbeat stuttering now and again. She smiled, kissing her collarbone, a deep, longing thing —

"Rest first, darling," said Carol, gently, fingers stroking her hair. "There's plenty of time for that." 

Therese sighed, but contented herself with tracing circles along Carol's stomach with her fingertips, nails gently grazing...

"I hope you don't think," murmured Carol, after a while, "That I lured you here." 

"Oh, you didn't?" said Therese, leaning up on an elbow, a small husky laugh escaping her throat. "I thought that's exactly what you did." 

Carol leaned in, teeth grazing against her jaw, a subtle nip —

"Are you teasing me, Miss Belivet?"

"Why, yes, I am, Mrs. —" Therese faltered, biting her lip, heart thudding as she held her breath. 

Carol lifted her head to meet her eyes, warmly, as if to promise she had taken no offense. 

"Ross," she finished for her, and whatever glint of sadness shone behind the name vanished after a moment, swallowed by a smile, content if not pleased by the thought of it, "Miss Ross."

Therese nodded, nose nuzzling as she leaned down, connecting them again with a dusky kiss, her hands, at last, tracing contours — at last, wandering...


	9. Convalescent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What if I met him, walking on the highway?  
> Let him see how lightly I should care…  
> Oh, but I’m gay, that’s better off without him;  
> Would he’d come and see me, laughing here.”
> 
> — from _Convalescent_ , Dorothy Parker 
> 
> ###### 

"Like this?"

"Just like that. Now slip your fingers under and — oh, that's perfect." 

"Hm?"

"Oh, Therese... couldn't have done better myself." 

Therese stepped back, watching as Carol admired her handiwork in the mirror. The satin belt around her waist had been tied into an almost perfect bow, despite the material's annoying proclivity for avoiding friction. It was beautiful, though, delicate and soft and silky smooth under her fingers...

The dress itself was almost a gown, midnight blue, almost black, with a steely shimmer of silver trim along the hem. It dipped, ever so slightly, into a V at her bust, a thick layer of foundation covering a mark on her sternum where Therese's lips had lingered too long the night before. Her hair was teased into languid waves and curls, eyes bright and blue and brilliant, lips red as pomegranate seeds. 

Oh, how Therese would gladly condemn herself to winter for just one taste...

"You look..." Therese bit her lip, if only in lieu of Carol's. "Ravishing." 

Carol smiled at her through the mirror. She said it all with her eyes: _later._

"Are you sure you don't want to join me?"

Therese shook her head. The gala was no place for her, and she'd only feel out of sorts about it. 

Carol nodded. "Then you'll meet me here?"

She smiled, coy, turning to run her hands over Therese's lithe shoulders. Therese laid a hand over Carol's, tracing her knuckles, down her fingers, tangling. 

"Come to mine," Therese murmured in reply. "And I'll take those pictures." 

She lifted the fingers to her lips, pressing gently. 

"It's a date," murmured Carol softly, before letting out a delicate chime of a laugh. 

No doubt she was laughing still, Therese grumbled softly as she scrubbed hard at a stubborn spot on her kitchenette floor, enjoying the champagne and roses and squab — she assumed they would be eating squab, or guinea fowl, or some other seemingly pretentious bird — while she harangued herself over inviting Carol to a place scarcely worthy of her left shoe. 

Therese scoffed, rubber gloves squeaking against the bottle as she took another sip of her beer, leaning back to sit against the cabinets, knees tucked up against her chest. She was in her painting clothes, bandana tied around her forehead to catch the sweat, pants rolled up to her knees, an old smock of a shirt tied at the waist to cling more readily to her body. 

Glancing around the studio, she sighed. It'd never be as clean as the hotel, or the museum, or any of the places Carol was used to. Her eyes drifted shut —

"Well," called a voice from the doorway, "And here I thought I'd be underdressed." 

Therese snapped forward, scrambling to her feet so quickly she knocked her head on the counter. Wincing, she rubbed at the spot, eyes finding Carol in a pair of summer slacks and a button down shirt. Her hair and lips were still done up from the party, her eyes still bright and blue and brilliant — _god,_ they were brilliant...

"I didn't expect you for another hour or so, I —" Therese ran a hand through her hair, smoothed her shirt, cheeks burning. "I was going to shower, change, um..."

But Carol only smiled, stepping in close. 

"You look... invigorated," she replied, taking the rag and bottle of cleaning liquid from Therese's hands, stripping off her gloves and tossing them aside. She smirked, a soft twist of her lips, before adding, quietly, "Besides, we'll both need a wash later, I'm sure." 

Therese shuddered, tilted her head up to find her lips, but Carol evaded, dipped her head low to her neck, kissing deeply, drawing her tongue over the spot where her pulse thrummed beneath her skin. Therese groaned, an involuntary submission of a sound, and Carol chuckled against her. 

"Now, about those pictures..." she murmured, drifting out of reach, turning to survey the apartment properly for the first time. 

Therese stood, dazed, touching the spot at her neck — heart stopping like a shot as she saw where Carol was looking: the full length portrait of the woman on the opposite wall.

"Is this... me?" 

She sounded amused, and Therese wanted to fling herself in front of the portrait, babble a thousand excuses… but Carol had already crossed to it, running a fingertip down along her own jaw, mirrored so perfectly in ink and lead.

"Very close, to have done it from memory." 

Therese watched, awestruck, as Carol leaned back against it, posing so that she covered it completely. 

"Don't you think? Almost exact."

Therese nodded, cleared her throat. "Almost." 

"But," said Carol, "The sketch isn't wearing any clothes." 

"No," replied Therese. 

"Then..." 

Carol slowly began unbuttoning her shirt. Therese downed the rest of her drink, and joined her. 

Therese wondered, for a moment, if the paper would be too rough beneath her skin, the crumpled torn edges and the spots where poorly applied plaster broke through the surface, but Carol didn't seem to care. Her shirt fell to the floor, shoes kicked away, as Therese's fingers lingered on the fastenings of her slacks. 

"Go on," murmured Carol, and Therese tugged them apart. She knelt in the process, pulling those long pants down those long legs, and kissed her way back up her thigh, eyes on Carol’s, drawing a stuttered sigh from Carol's lips. 

The woman reached back to undo her brassiere, a deep indigo that matched her lower half in tandem with the dress from  
before, but Therese laid a hand on hers to stop her. 

She drew away, quickly, quietly, and found her camera, loading a fresh roll of film, standing a few feet off. Carol raised her arms, head tilted back against the wall, throat exposed, muscles rippling along her arms, chest, stomach, thighs... she shifted, now and again, adjusting her pose, and Therese took and took and took, exposure after exposure, no sound but the shudder of the shutter, the ragged draw of her own breathing, until the button under her finger clicked dimly and stuck, spent, unsatisfied —

Therese flung the camera onto the bed and rushed to her, surging against Carol with lips and teeth and tongue, fingertips tracing every line and curve, pressing her back against the wall harder, desperate, as her fingers slipped beneath the hem of her underwear, trailing across her skin as if she wished she could savor it, but, oh, the ache in her chest was too great —

Carol let out a cry when she touched her, deeper than Therese expected, more guttural than before, in the hotel. She imagined, for an instant, that it was because they were truly alone, now, presumed it to be out of a sense of safety... 

She wanted her safe, wanted her always like this, voice deep, exposed, eyes shut tightly, exquisite. This was all her art, now, the drag of her fingertips across Carol's skin, the painting of her lips, slick, the sculpture of the long leg wrapped around her, the pressure of her thumb on that delicate trigger, snap after snap, little more than a roll of her thumb, capturing, developing —

Carol's hand was in her hair, a flat hand joining together to fist, holding on for dear life as her body shook, as Therese breathed into her chest, kissing through fabric, teeth grazing over each promontory, charting her next course. At last the woman slumped, full weight only scarcely supported by small Therese, weak Therese... strong Therese, now, with something quiet stoked in her stomach into something great, a blaze that could burn Rome, or Hargess Aird and his mistress, or half the world over...

She carried her to bed — well, partly — walked her that way, supporting her, the slick sheen of sweat and lust and _darling, you were wonderful, lord, you were divine_ singing with a tremble under her fingers. Carol laid back against the pillows, reclined like an empress, a kiss or two and a flick of her wrist tugging the bandana from Therese’s hair...

"I want to see you," she murmured, and Therese leaned up on her knees to comply. 

She stripped, slowly. She'd never been one to put on a show, preferred to stand by as her art took center stage, but if this was the art Carol wanted, the exhibit she'd come to see… she couldn’t find it in her to resist. 

As if she could — as if she could refuse her anything. 

When she was laid bare, she laid her body down, forward, tangling their legs, lips nestled in the crook of Carol's neck. 

After a handful of breaths shared, skin to skin, Therese spoke up. 

"I want to try it."

"Hm?"

Carol’s hands trailed lazily through her hair, circling above her ear before Therese found words again. 

"You told me I didn't have to," Therese continued, raising a brow. "But I want to." 

"Oh," murmured Carol. She paused. "If you're sure."

"It's you," said Therese with a smile, "How could it be anything but wonderful?"

Carol's fingers slipped down the back of her neck, tugging her close, kissing her deeply. Something in Therese's chest flipped the switch, a neighborhood's worth of Christmas decorations lighting up, warm and wild and wonderful, aching to shine —

She pulled her lips away, trailing kisses down the pale expanse of her skin until she settled between her legs. The woman shifted, as if nervous —

"I'll be gentle," said Therese, a facsimile of Carol’s coy smirk tugging her lips as she kissed her stomach, fingers stroking the bones of her hips. Carol let out a breathless laugh and rolled her eyes, fingers tangled in her blonde curls. Therese nipped at her thigh in retort, but Carol only groaned, hips canting upwards, the steady undulation of a wave, bearing Aphrodite towards the shore — 

The phone on the nightstand rang out, sudden, insistent. Therese lifted her head —

"Ignore it," Carol husked, and sure enough the ringing tapered off. 

Therese lowered her head again, lips kissing the jut of her hip, and Carol rolled towards her, hand stroking down her neck —

The phone’s shrill outburst drew a gruff sigh from Carol, as Therese crawled up her towards the phone.

“Hello?” murmured Therese, “Richard, hello. I’m a little — no, no, of course, if it’s important…” 

Carol’s fingers trailed along her spine as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. 

“Yes, I know. And he’s sure Hallock’s in Chicago?” Therese sighed, fingers wrapped around the phone. 

The chilly air of early dusk was drifting in through the windows, and she shivered when she felt Carol’s arms slip around her, nose in her neck.

“Hang up the phone,” Carol murmured into her free ear, “Call him back later.”

“I don’t think —” Therese drew in a sharp breath as Carol’s hand drifted over her breasts, indulging in the soundless shiver it sent crawling up her spine. “I don’t think he’ll do anything rash. Hm?”

She swatted at Carol’s hand when her fingertips flicked at the piercing, heat pooling in her stomach. It was difficult enough to listen to the dull whine of Richard’s voice without the distraction, although she didn’t mean to hit her quite so hard… evidently, it was hard enough, as the hands fell away entirely. Therese felt the brief, brusque huff against her skin, heard the quiet, “Well, that’s that.” 

Her heart sank when she felt the bed sag, closing her eyes and trying to focus on what Richard was jabbering on about now, the concern about Phil’s welfare, the assignment that would take him out of the city…

She almost missed the brush of Carol’s breath on her thighs. She couldn’t, however, miss the brush of her fingertips, effortlessly prying her legs apart. Therese glanced down, lips parting to mouth some indignation, but Carol was quicker, shouldering her way forward — and the next sound from Therese’s lips was a distinct moan, muffled against the lip she chewed eagerly between her teeth. 

“Terry?” Richard’s voice was dripping with concern. 

“I’m fine,” Therese croaked into the phone. “Fine, I just — not feel well.”

She swore she could feel Carol smirk into her thigh, Carol — whom Therese had come to know as gentle, steady, sweet, languid — who laid into the pedal, full throttle, fingers of one hand splayed across her thigh, the other scratching lightly down her stomach, tongue flicking, curling, quick, feverish —

The “gotta go, Richard, bye,” stumbled its way out of Therese’s lips, somewhere between a stammer and a choke, as she slammed the receiver into the cradle. Carol didn’t falter, fingers slipping low, teasing —

“Carol,” she groaned, hands reaching forward. Carol pulled back instantly. 

“You were too busy to touch me before,” Carol drawled, a tsk hovering on her lips, along with the unspoken instruction: _no touching me now._

“Oh, God…” Therese’s fingers found the edge of the bed, gripping, curling — as Carol, a smile spreading across her sharp, wan features, curled in tandem. Therese’s head tipped back, hips rolling, _begging,_ until Carol, at _last_ , relented, skating her lips across her thigh again to join her fingers. 

It seemed like hours later, by the time Carol knelt up, pressing wet lips to the exhausted column of Therese’s throat, fingers damp against her hip, pressing her back into the bed again. Therese gladly relented, curling into Carol when she joined her, legs tangling into Carol's as the woman chuckled into her forehead. 

“That was meant to be me,” Therese murmured, frowning. 

Carol shrugged.

“You had a _very_ important phone call,” Carol mused, “Didn’t you?”

Therese shook her head. “Not very. Just Richard, telling me something about Phil —"

Carol smirked, cocked a brow. She was teasing. Of course. Therese rolled her eyes. 

"You’re _deadly._ ”

Carol laughed, loudly, into the crest of her hair. “Darling, you have no idea.”

They lay, in silence, for a long while, before Therese stretched.

“Somebody promised me a shower.”

“Oh?”

Therese nodded, smiling, calculating, “You did. When you first got here, you said —“

Carol cut her off with a kiss, tongue tracing the curve of her lower lip, the crest of her smile. Therese melted into the touch, any further words forgotten. 

“I know what I said,” Carol murmured, “And I meant it.”

A heartbeat and a half later, they were on their feet, stumbling towards the bathroom. 

Therese wondered, distantly, how it’d feel to have the hot water and Carol’s lips on her at the same time.

Something (Carol’s hand on the small of her back, perhaps, sliding lower) told her she wouldn’t have long to wonder.


	10. But Not Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ”I think, no matter where you stay,  
> That I shall go with you a way.  
> Though you may wander sweeter lands,  
> You will not soon forget my hands,  
> Nor yet the way I held my head,  
> Nor all the tremulous things I sad.  
> You still will see me, small and white  
> And smiling, in the secret night,  
> And feel my arms about you when  
> The day comes fluttering back again.” 
> 
> — from _But Not Forgotten_ , Dorothy Parker 
> 
> ###### 

Mrs. Aird, 

I wonder, sometimes, where you read these. 

Most of the time I hardly think about it — I suppose in bed, sometimes, or out in the garden, or in a cab on your way to some event or some discourse… and perhaps it doesn’t really matter. I know that you read them, so the where isn’t so much a point of interest as it is a point of reference.

But then, it matters where I write them, I think, more than you may know. A pen and a cup of coffee at some café will pull different words from me than the same pen and a glass of wine at my bedroom window, looking out at the glowing lights of this shimmering city as dusk falls over the rue de quelque-chose or the avenue de comme-ci, comme ca… 

I do hope you don’t think me cruel for including some sketches of the Place de la Concorde and, of course, Notre Dame (I know I mentioned how fervently I’d wished to see it a month ago, and now that I have…)

Now that I have, I think I would have much rather you been here to see it, too.

Best,

Therese Belivet

◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ 

Therese,

I am out, entirely, of my house (Harge’s house, now, I should say) with all my things moved out of that place, and no lingering evidence there that I ever called it home. He may quit it entirely before the year is out, I really have no idea. 

Rindy has plans to stay at her school for the holiday, and we’ll visit her separately between Christmas and New Year’s. It’s a wonderful place, just south of Oxford, wreathed in ivy and encased in ancient stone, a place older than anything here, perhaps even anything where you are… I was never too good with history. Haven’t a mind for dates. 

No, it is my intention, as it always has been, that the past be the past, and the future be the future. What was before is no longer, now, what hands touched us, what wine passed the barrier of our lips — only the good we carry with us, only the boon of good health and good hearth and quiet seas…

My darling, I am filled with affection at the sight of your work. I miss it as I miss any other aspect of you, as I miss your eyes, your hands, the curve of your lips…

Perhaps I miss your work slightly less than all the rest.

Yours, etc. —

Carol

P.S. Enclosed is a slip containing my new address. No one checks the post here but me.

◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ 

Carol,

I feel silly even as I write this, but I hope I do not count as history. I should dissolve into dust if I were left behind with stories of Charlemagne and that house in New Jersey.

I think of you often, and sketch from your memory even more-so. 

Do you think of me?

Therese

◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ 

Therese woke to the sound of the telephone on her nightstand trilling like one fourth of a set of calling birds.

She winced. Perhaps it was half a set. 

Too much wine from the night before hung thick in the forefront of her mind. She’d taken to a glass or three before bed, as many of her classmates at Parsons Paris had encouraged her to, chasing a late supper as they discussed impressionism and sculpture, modern photography and the architecture of the city around them, the whole area bustling with American and English students and Paris’s youngers and elders…

She’d had a fourth when she realized it had been an entire week since she’d heard from Carol, and a fifth when she realized she might never hear from her again. 

It wasn’t entirely a preposterous idea — the summer course had ended as quickly and quietly as it had begun, and when Dr. Gerhard had passed out the applications to some schools abroad, Therese hadn’t thought too much about it, just signed her name and attached her work… she didn’t think of it again, not until a week later when Paris — yes, that Paris — answered. 

She’d read the acceptance letter over and over, stretched out across the foot of Carol’s bed. There was never any question of whether or not she would accept. Carol had been the one to drive her to the airport, with a promise to write… and so it had gone, letters back and forth until, suddenly, nothing. No word at all, not even a telegram. Nothing.

Perhaps she’d come on too strong, Therese thought, glum, asked her to promise too much... she pinched the bridge of her nose, collecting whatever cells of her mind agreed to commune with conscious thought, and forced her other hand to grasp at the phone. 

She lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hello?”

“Delivery, Mam’selle Belivet. Lilies.”

“Lilies?” She frowned. “I’m not expecting flowers, sir, and I’m really not in a state to come down and —“

“Someone will bring them to you, mam’selle.”

The click of the phone and the clatter as the line disconnected had her wincing again before she could even begin to muster up a response.

Therese sighed. Well, that’s that.

Her thoughts turned again to Carol as she rose, digging out a robe from a pile of pajamas and a misplaced overcoat. Perhaps she’d only been a lark, a brief flutter of a caged bird’s wings, spreading as the older woman, at last, found freedom —

Therese drew in a deep breath.

The woman deserved to be free. What happened afterwards, whatever happened next, wherever Therese wound up on her list of priorities… her heart sank as she considered being left off entirely. But there was an entire ocean between them, now, and how…

How could she expect her to keep in touch, when they couldn’t even — well…

A soft rapping from the door drew Therese somewhat out of the lethargy with which she stood, drawing the robe belt loosely around her to join the wings of the fabric together, making her way towards the door, pulling it open slowly…

It was the bouquet of promised lilies — and, half hidden behind the flowering buds, was Carol, Carol herself, Carol garbed in a long peach colored coat, hair pinned under a matching hat, dusted with snow from hat to long gloves, grasping the bouquet firmly in her long fingers —

Therese breathed her name aloud with the sort of desperate audacity of a lover thought long forgotten, slipping audibly from her lips before she could even think to stop herself. The blush that bloomed as if on cue left a heat scorching the curve of her jaws, but Carol only smiled, kindly.

“May I come in?”

“May you —” Therese began, laughing softly, stepping back. “Come in, of course, only — am I still dreaming?”

Carol raised a brow, stepping inside and making her way towards a nearby table, setting the flowers down and shrugging out of her coat.

“Have you been dreaming of me?”

Therese nodded. Carol’s laugh was as light and silvery as she remembered, like the soft jingle of bells in the streets below, a sound that drifted almost lazily over towards Therese only moments before she did, shoes clacking gently on the oak floors, shuffling along the brocaded rug she passed over, reaching out for Therese's shoulders, running her gloved hands over the thin material of her robe...

Therese shivered. Carol lifted her hands away.

"Cold," Therese murmured, "The snow..."

Carol didn’t hesitate, only tugged off one glove and then the other, casting them down on the nightstand. Therese's stomach turned, nerves bubbling to the surface —

Nerves, and a wicked hangover. She groaned, finding a seat on the edge of the bed. 

"You're ill," Carol frowned, running the back of her palm along Therese's cheek, then her forehead, feeling as if for a fever. 

Therese shook her head. "Too much wine last night."

"You shouldn't drink so much."

"You shouldn't write a girl every day for a month,” retorted Therese, a frustration she hadn't dared acknowledge in the last few days surging to the surface as she met Carol's eyes, "You shouldn't — and then suddenly..."

Carol's gaze flickered towards the floor. Therese regretted it immediately.

"I, oh, Carol, that was..." she bit her lip, "Forget —"

"It's valid," Carol sighed, reaching into her coat for a cigarette, and realizing her coat was across the room settled for wringing her hands instead, running her thumb along each knuckle... "It's true, and I... I realize..."

"Forget about it," Therese murmured, as Carol bit her lip, "Forget I even brought it up."

“I can’t not think of you,” she replied, after a lengthy silence that tore at Therese’s nerves as if petals off a childhood flower, “Even with all this space between us, I couldn’t forget. How could you doubt it? Daily. Hourly, even.” 

Carol let out a sigh, running her fingers through Therese's hair and down the back her neck, “Oh, with every breath. Can you doubt it?”

Therese lifted her head, cheek pressed to Carol's wrist, "You flew all this way.”

"I wanted to write, to tell you... to answer your question, you know, but I tried, and the words... hollow. Not enough, I suppose, or... well..."

Therese nodded, an absolution for the words that escaped her, repeated, "You flew all this way."

"To see you,” Carol replied, “And Rindy in a week..."

"Right," Therese murmured, "Right, of course, in London."

"I don't suppose..." Carol tossed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, "Would you like to come with me?”

Therese smiled, reaching out for Carol, tugging her close with that same indomitable attitude that had driven her to Manhattan, and then to Paris. Carol stretched out to lay across the bed, as if posing for a painting, prone, heels kicking off and clattering to the floor —

It was a beautiful sight, one that rivaled all the splendor that stretched across the city outside Therese’s window. 

"Yes," Therese replied, curling into the curve of Carol’s side, "Yes, I think I would."

As punctuation, she leaned up, fingers taut against Carol’s shoulder, for a kiss, long and deep, and long overdue.

“Well,” murmured Carol when Therese released her, and Therese only laughed, relaxing at last with her head pillowed against her shoulder, Carol’s fingers running through her hair. “That’s that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. I tried a few different endings to this, but I always struggle with endings (stories seem to stretch onwards indefinitely — perhaps that's their best aspect). The letters as a device felt like a framework at least similar to if not directly thieved from the original work.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone, and sticking by even through the long, long wait between the last chapter and this ending. 
> 
> I'm considering posting some original work until I tackle whatever next fandom I wind up in (Voyager, perhaps, or The Magicians — we'll see). Drop a comment if that sounds like something you'd be interested in.
> 
> — M


End file.
